Absolution
by TheKFakt0r
Summary: Vegas was ordered to kill his best friend. Haunted by the guilt of the incident, the young Absolver leaves Towerpoint and the Guides on a path to find himself again. However, when he begins to encounter one lost soul after another, he finds that perhaps he isn't the only person who's in need of solace.
1. A Battle in the Sky

The battle between Absolvers atop the tower of Adal raged within the Hanging Gardens. It resided in an area that was delicately balanced between the beautiful architecture of Raslan's brightest engineers and the intricate weaves of nature that crawled over the rooftop in the new, relative absence of mankind's interference. It was a mixture of man's brilliance and nature's intuition, lit by a timid sun hiding behind sparse clouds. The birds could be heard singing, the breeze created a warm symphony between the leaves of the overgrowth, and blows were audibly exchanged with an occasional kiai or grunt of pain.

Risryn weaved between attacks like silk in the hands of a masterful seamstress, and struck with the sharpness of the needle. Her black tunic and cape flowed in the singing breeze, intermittently making a cutting _flap_ noise that contrasted with the peaceful sounds of the Gardens. Under her mask, inspired by Silan, a face twisted, stuck changing between two emotions. One was a wicked smile in the giddy thrill of battle, fighting the one friend from her childhood that was able to consistently put up a fight. The other was a crushed, almost weeping grimace as she realized that perhaps she had indeed done something wrong, and that this fight may be the last she would ever wage with her old friend. In deserting the Guides, Risryn had donned a target for other Absolvers. One couldn't simply leave the upper echelon of Raslan's remaining society.

Vegas, on the other hand, intercepted incoming blows with a rehearsed parry, striking hard against the incoming limb to stun it. His attacks remained direct and practical, practiced thousands of times to maximize efficiency and power. His blue cloak cut through the air like an aquatic ray; it flowed freely in tight arcs with all of the to-the-point attitude of the Absolvers upon which it was bestowed. Under his mask, an alabaster one with a cracked eye of Simeon, was a static emotion of tragedy and perhaps some fear. He was struck by grief already, fearful that he would either accidentally kill Risryn or she would get carried away and kill him. Why'd she have to do this? Why desert the Guides and the future that the two had worked so hard to establish for themselves? Why did the guides select him to face Risryn, even knowing that of all the people who had been granted the title of Absolver, he was the one most closely attached to her? These questions ripped across Vegas' mind with a similar tempo to his strikes.

"You know that the Guides are manipulating us, don't you?" calmly asked Risryn. It took her a lot of effort to hide the exhaustion in her voice.

"They're the reason we're as strong as we are, Risryn…" responded Vegas. His voice was entreating, and unlike his opponent, he didn't attempt to hide that he was winded.

"Because they want to use us," she retorted sharply, "They know that the prospects who fail will go mad in the mines."

Vegas stopped to listen. Risryn continued, "They lose their minds and madly attack anyone who enters. And if they don't, the Guides call them, us, Absolvers. Then they just use us to defend the same mines…"

"Nonsense."

"Truth. Whether we succeed in our goals or not doesn't matter. In the end, we become pawns under their system. Security for their Essence-run economy."

Vegas seemed stunned for a moment, considering the idea that her words may hold truth. But, in classic Risryn fashion, she threw out a surprise strike after distracting him with words. This attack didn't bludgeon, however. It cut. She had summoned her sword. "You aren't going to believe me, anyway, are you…" she muttered. Vegas became confused at the revelation that she had just dropped on him, but the fight went on.

Risryn's blade was a well forged double-edged sword crafted in Uring by some of the best blacksmiths the country had to offer, and with it, she let loose a lighting-fast combo of traditional Windfall maneuvers. Vegas managed to deflect some of these swipes with his gloves, steel plates covered by dark leathers, but the majority came through. He no longer had time to think about whether or not he was really being manipulated by the Guides. He had to fight for his life, now. His friend was convinced that he wasn't convinced.

Risryn had always held an edge in hand-to-hand battles against Vegas, but he was better in any situation with a sword. It nonetheless came as a surprise to her when he caught the blade in one hand and sharply struck at the wrist, disarming her. Vegas spun into a back stance and instinctively thrust the sword behind him and under his arm. The tip of the blade sunk squarely into the heart. Vegas was so rehearsed in this maneuver that he performed it without remembering that this time, it was a real sword. Any hopes he had of taking her back alive spilled out of his mind like a glass of wine bumped by an elbow.

Risryn gasped, losing all of the air in her lungs. She fell backwards, off of the sword and onto the ground, reaching up with one hand towards the noon sun, still hiding behind the clouds. Vegas immediately turned around, realizing what he had done. He threw the sword off to the side and dropped swiftly to his knees beside his friend. Her panicked attempts at breathing sounded like sobs, and blood pooled on her chest. The thrust didn't go far enough to make an exit wound, but definitely connected with some organs. Vegas also panicked. Every few heartbeats, blood literally spurt forth from the wound, sticking to his mask. He rushed to remove her coat and attempted to use it as a bandage, but his attempts to treat her were going to be futile and he could tell.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Risryn, please! Risryn, I'm sorry!" he cried over her dying body. From both of their masks, a tear occasionally dropped. But alas, their weeping could do nothing to remedy the wound. After not even a minute of bleeding out on the floor, Risryn began to go limp, her hand losing its tight grasp on Vegas' and her breathing calming down to a complete standstill. She expired there, in the center of the Hanging Gardens, in a pool of her own blood and tears. Vegas remained over her body, nearly screaming in his sobs.

The sun finally retreated from its nest in the clouds.


	2. Guidance from a New Friend

The sky had become a collection of colors ranging from orange to pink as the sun began to set. The clouds had fallen into darker shades of gray as opposed to the pearly white color that they were hours ago. Wind picked up, blowing the leaves of the overgrowth from their place of rest and inciting the various small animals that resided in the Hanging Gardens to move for cover. Very light precipitation fell from above as night began to fall. It wasn't quite possible to tell if it was light rain or light snow, because even if it was snow, it melted the moment it touched something. The night would be quite cold. The traumatized martial artist still hadn't moved very far from his friend's lifeless vessel.

It had been six? Seven hours? Vegas couldn't tell, but the sun was taking cover under the horizon. He had been thinking about what had transpired a few hours ago for the whole time, constantly running questions through his head. He ran out of tears after a while. Unfortunately, tears are the one thing the body reserves to soothe itself. At times, to cry oneself out of tears is to fall into an even worse sadness. Vegas wasn't just depressed, however. He was seething, at himself, at Risryn, and especially at the Guides.

The concept of mortality isn't important to most Guides, Prospects, or Absolvers. Essence was truly a miraculous material, and the Guides had mastered utilizing it even with only small amounts of it on hand. Prospects and Absolvers particularly used it to operate their masks. The interior of the facial garment was laced with Essence, which would be used both to bind it to the face and fuel Folding. Folding was the magic used to rip through space and time to perform things that would otherwise be impossible. The Essence in the mask was used to Fold the wearer upon death and "unfold" them at a nearby altar. This didn't work for Risryn, however, because the Guides had carefully nullified her resurrection effect. In other words, they had removed her means of reincarnating and doomed her to truly die the next time she received a fatal wound, which ended up being dealt upon her by her own best friend.

Vegas cursed himself for doing the deed, but in his anguish, he sought someone to blame. Naturally, that blame fell upon the Guides for applying such a death sentence to someone who would otherwise be immortal. After finally establishing something for himself to channel his hatred and rage towards, he slowly rose from his position on the floor. He looked down at Risryn, and then over at her sword. It occurred to him that it would be inhumane to just leave her there alongside her weapon so unceremoniously. He first moved to pick up the sword, Folding it into some other dimension. He then set about looking for a shed or something of the sort where tools would be stored. He wanted to give her a proper grave.

After finding a storage shed on the opposite end of the tower's rooftop and beating the Lost Prospect who guarded it to death, he located a shovel. He returned to the rogue's resting place, picking her up and placing her on his shoulder, before spending some time looking around in the gardens for an open spot. Upon finding a good spot, Vegas removed her mask and her trademark black duster. He subsequently spent an hour digging without a thing on his mind. It was an oddly therapeutic experience, digging the grave. Even as the snow and night began to fall, his mind was clear. By the time he was done burying her, a thin layer of white blanketed the vicinity. He threw the shovel off to the side and gave one final martial salute to the grave, which was marked only by a slate of stone with the Eye of Anlek engraved upon it.

The fighter went back into the staircase and began descending into the archives below. At the bottom of the first flight of stairs was an old man in a cloak: a Guide, the very same one who originally selected Vegas and Risryn when they were new Prospects, the same one who placed that telltale blue cloak over the two of them when they graduated from their training. His name was Cyrus.

Cyrus was at first surprised to see someone descending the stairs dressed in black instead of blue. After a second, however, he recognized it as Vegas, wearing the coat of Risryn with a bloodstain covering a portion of his mask. It occurred to him that things up top ended the way they were supposed to. He understood that Vegas would be in a fragile state, and adopted a gentle demeanor as he began to speak. "I'm… terribly sorry that things went down like this," said Cyrus. He was met with silence, though the body language of his former protege indicated that he was receptive to the condolence. Vegas looked down, unsure of whether he should be feeling resentment or appreciation for the apology. Cyrus was genuine, and appeared to be so as well.

"I…" Vegas opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't find words or a voice to project. He gulped, trying to drown the bump in his throat. "Just… let's leave, Cyrus." The older of the two simply nodded and motioned for the young Absolver to follow him. He lifted a hand, one with a bracelet of Essence shards about the wrist, and whispered a few words. The bracelet glowed briefly as an opening in space appeared before the Guide: a portal leading back to Towerpoint, the home of inbound Prospects, Absolvers, and the Guides. The duo stepped through the portal, which looked like no more than a frameless window to their destination. They appeared in their home atop a balcony, overlooking a larger balcony beneath itself.

It was that time of year again. Vegas observed the lower balcony, seeing several rows of Prospects in simple clothing and handmade masks, all in a meditating pose. A pair of Guides stood in front of the Prospects, exchanging quiet words about which ones seemed the most appropriate to test. Vegas remembered when he and Risryn were down on that balcony in the same pose as those other Prospects, trying their best to drown their anxiety before they were selected. Only one or two would be selected every day for a month, after which the selection would close and aspiring Prospects would have to wait another year to audition for the test again. The feeling was nostalgic, but unwelcome. Vegas even noticed a few Absolvers in their blue cloaks that were at his test four years ago. He would be glad to see that they succeeded, if it hadn't just been highlighted to him a few hours ago that becoming an Absolver was tantamount to becoming the sword of the Guides' own machinations.

Vegas stopped leaning over the short wall of the higher balcony, turning around after a few minutes of watching the selection process to find that Cyrus had left. In his place was an Absolver, wearing the white cloak of a Missionary. He had pale skin, judging from his ungloved hands, and fairly short brown hair pushed into a prim and proper forward spike. The Missionary paid Vegas no mind, moving up to the balcony to watch the ceremony. Vegas returned to his position to continue watching.

A Guide walked to the outside of the formation and down to the third row before moving into it. He took seven slow steps into the formation. One could see the Prospects who were passed droop slightly in disappointment as they realized they'd have to come in another day. He made it to the fifth person in the row, a young man with sun-kissed skin and black hair. The Guide tapped him on the shoulder, causing him to perk up. Vegas finally broke the silence on the upper balcony, speaking to the Missionary, "Lucky him, huh?"

"Heh, yeah. Took me three years to get selected," casually responded the man in white.

"Was it worth the wait?" asked Vegas.

"Oh, absolutely. The name's Tiwaz."

"Vegas," solemnly responded the one clad in black.

"How long was your selection?"

"I was selected first year. I got lucky, it was one of the days where they selected two Prospects."

"You were the second?"

"Yeah," replied Vegas, sounding a bit dejected.

"That's an Absolver's tunic you're wearing, so I can assume you passed. How about your partner?" inquired Tiwaz. Vegas went silent for a moment, leading Tiwaz to assume that Vegas' partner had become one of the Lost. Tiwaz went on, "Hm. I'm sorr-"

"She made it. She made it before even I did," interrupted the man in mourning. Tiwaz corrected his demeanor. "Oh! Is she here in Towerpoint?" he asked. Vegas inhaled sharply.

"You'll notice that there's blood on this coat," implied Vegas. Tiwaz did notice after it was mentioned. Vegas continued, "And my mask," turning to face the Missionary. Tiwaz was slightly taken aback as the bloodstain was made visible with Vegas turning. "It's there because earlier today, the Guides designated my partner as a rogue and sent me to kill her. This was her coat. This is her blood." They both went silent. It had been maybe five seconds before the man in black broke the awkward silence. "This field we work in gets pretty damn dirty, doesn't it?" asked Vegas. Tiwaz responded a few seconds later with a tentative nod.

Tiwaz wanted to grant his condolences or something to try and follow social protocol, but wasn't sure how to go about it. He had never had anyone drop something like that on him, especially not a stranger. It occurred to him that being in the absolving business could get pretty grimy. How many times had he been instructed to kill someone deemed an infidel by the Guides? How many of those times included an enemy who had a family back home? How many children were orphaned in the name of religious punity? Tiwaz understood that he was more of a crusader than a missionary.

While he was in thought, Vegas stood upright. "I'll see you later," said the man in black, walking off. Tiwaz looked back down, seeing the ceremony for the day ending. A second missing person from the formation indicated that a second selection was made while he was talking to Vegas. The Guides dismissed the Prospects, and they all began walking back towards a staircase dejectedly. They talked lowly amongst themselves, some jealously talking about the ones who were selected, others reassuring friends that they would be selected some other day. _They're so naive_ , thought the Missionary. He stood and walked off towards his quarters, the same way that Vegas had gone.

Tiwaz moved briskly, aiming to catch up to the enigma he met a few minutes before. He did so without much difficulty, as the man with the bloody mask was using a sad, slow, shuffling gait. "Friend, wait up," called out the man in white. Vegas stopped, letting Tiwaz catch up to him.

"Look, I get that you're in a sour mood right now. But I can just feel the hatred coming off of you," began Tiwaz. "I… I understand the feelings of anger and guilt. This white cloak of mine doesn't come easy, and it doesn't stay easy. I've done things that made me question the Guides, too, as well as myself." Vegas listened patiently. Tiwaz continued, "You're gonna look for something to punish, something to channel your anger into. I'm normally way out in the Tearan wilderness when I get mad like that. I can hit a tree, or hunt down an animal. But you're in Towerpoint, awful close to those very Guides that told you to kill your friend. That's what you wanna retaliate against, isn't it?" Vegas was taken aback by the man's accuracy in his assumption. "Listen, don't. They can Fold you right out of Towerpoint if you get too close. Won't work. Then, after that, they'll assign the rogue status to you, just like they did to your partner. Then one of your fellow Absolvers is gonna have to hunt you down, the Guides will remove your ability to refold, and you'll more than likely get yourself killed.

"Who's to say that I don't want that?"

"It's the heat of the moment, Vegas! It's easy to think like that! Yeah, it took me longer to get selected than you, but I've been doing missionary work for a long time now and I can tell you from experience that you'll be able to get out of this fit of yours. Just be patient, maybe meditate for a few days. The rage will pass, I promise."

"Why do you care?"

"You think you're the first dude to get angry because he had to kill someone he cared about, or someone who wasn't really in the wrong? You're not. The Guides can't be perfect, sometimes they call a bad shot and we end up with the heartache after carrying it out. But they do more good than bad."

"Like what? Hoarding Essence and manipulating our hopes and dreams to fall under their own agenda?"

"They _give us something to look forward to._ Adal's kind of in a bad state, if you haven't noticed. There's nothing for us to do but try to rebuild or mine Essence in hopes of fixing it," highlighted Tiwaz.

"You think maybe the place deserved to be destroyed? It's common knowledge that the Downfall was caused by the destabilization of the earth that came from us mining so much Essence. We were over-reliant on it and it caused our own little world to end. And what do the Guides do in the face of this disaster? They keep mining it, and the country doesn't seem to have a whole lot to show for it, either. The world literally broke because we kept using Essence to play God and cheat death, yet we continue to do it."

Tiwaz was stumped, but only for a moment. He sighed before starting, "What did you always want to do as a kid?"

"I wanted to become an Absolver, like-"

"Like the rest of us, right? It was a dream, something for you to chase. A title only given to the best of the best. So you must've worked towards it, right?" inquired Tiwaz.

"Yeah, with Risryn, before they…" Vegas fell off into silence.

"Sounds like you knew her before the Selection. What did Risryn tell you you needed to do to become an Absolver?"

"Uh...to maintain an indomitable will. To always grow stronger, even in the face of adversity," recalled Vegas. Tiwaz simply motioned for him to continue. "She always valued the virtues of an Absolver. I can remember the starry look she used to get in her eyes when she talked about it."

"You said she went rogue. The Guides frankly don't give a damn if a Prospect goes rogue, so she must've ultimately become an Absolver too. She had to have had those virtues, right?"

"Right."

"You were selected the same day, you said. Right after her. That means that you had those virtues too. Unflinching resolve, always with the will to continue. To get back up after you've been knocked on your ass. That level of dedication."

"Or so I thought."

"No, you _had_ to have had them. Otherwise, Risryn would've been selected alone on that day, you'd've been left behind to wait another year. From what you told me, your friend lost her footing somewhere on that path and the Guides wanted to put an end to it. You had to fight her."

"Yes," said Vegas, audibly heartbroken over it.

"The fact that she even put up a fight, even against her own friend, says that even on her lost path, she kept those ideals. She clutched them, kept them close to her chest even in her darkest hours. So tell me, Vegas, do you think somebody with such a strong resolve would want her friend, her undoing, to be some coward who just gives up on his way because he went through one hardship? Do you think she would want you to just say, 'yeah, I'm fine with getting myself killed because I'm sad and I don't wanna deal with it'?"

"...no. She wouldn't. She'd hate for me to kill myself like that. She'd scold me for it, beat the sense back into me. And she'd want me to do the same for her."

"Of course. The fallen can't come back, but their will and their drive can affect the world and the people left in it. Don't you dare let your friend down."

Vegas was stunned. He unclenched his fists. "I… thank you, Tiwaz. I think I needed that guidance." Tiwaz just nodded. He looked at Vegas, loosening up his tense posture before responding, "Yeah. No problem. Make sure you take care of yourself, alright?" Vegas nodded. The two parted ways.

As Vegas rested that night, he knew that a self-destruction wouldn't be the best way to handle his guilt. But he was still hung up on the fact that he only even killed Risryn because he stopped thinking, that he performed a lethal maneuver with a lethal weapon in a nonlethal scenario. He Folded the blood off of Risryn's coat, but not his own mask. That would serve as a reminder to himself that her blood was on him, and that guilt may never be absolved. He could, however, take solace in the fact that he could keep moving forward; that Risryn would've wanted it, and that it's what a good Absolver would do.

He slept with his back against a wall that night, not even bothering to go to his room.


	3. Teachings of a Mourner

**A/N: To any who may be wondering, Vegas' name is indeed pronounced the same way as it is in "Las Vegas." A friend read it as "Vee-gass" and I found it pretty hilarious.**

Towerpoint was a massive tower made of gray, smooth stone. While the architecture within was generally outstanding, even by Adalian standards, the whole complex was a slate color and uninspiring to behold because of this. It was a dreadful appearance, as cold as the eternal winter that the tower resided in.

It was the place that all children of Raslan, the Orate, Uring, and even the Tear looked up to. Backyard fights between siblings all over the continent raged as children and teenagers sparred with the hopes that they'd become strong enough to go to Towerpoint and be selected to start the journey of a Prospect. Next to becoming a Guide, becoming an Absolver was the most prestigious thing a person could do.

The aspiring Prospects that Vegas and Tiwaz had observed returned to their barracks, each with varying degrees of disappointment from their failed audition. It was the second to last day of the yearly Selection, which meant that only one or two Prospects would be selected on the final day and everyone else would have to return home hanging their heads. Considering that they had just witnessed a double selection, it was very unlikely that two would be selected the next day. In other words, a few dozen Prospects were now all at odds with each other, vying for the final position of the year. This caused some friendships to become strained, as people who came with a friend hoping to both be selected realized that there was no longer a very realistic possibility that they would receive their wish.

Particularly fazed by this revelation were the inseparable friends, Sophiel and Elijah. She and he were like brother and sister.

As the pair walked down an undecorated hallway, Elijah was drooping slightly. His friend gave a light slap on the shoulder. "Get your chin up, Eli," pleaded Sophiel, "There's still one more day, one more chance."

"Yeah, I know. Just disheartening to be last pick, you know?"

Sophiel chuckled. She knew that he was frequently picked last for team based games back home. "Don't worry. We've got this, I'm sure of it."

"Mhm. Hey, I forgot to ask one of the Guides a question. Go on ahead, I'll catch up," responded Elijah. Sophiel nodded in response and continued on her path, aware that he was lying.

Elijah turned and backtracked down the hall they were striding through, taking several turns that would lead him up to the second balcony, the same one from which two Absolvers observed today's selection. He needed a good place to think, and that balcony had offered him solace for the past thirty days. An Absolver in white walked past him in a hurry, not paying him any mind. Elijah was relieved: he wasn't sure if he was even allowed to be up there, and feared punishment by the man in Missionary robes.

Eli successfully made it up and onto the unpopulated balcony and leaned on the short wall from which onlookers would watch the Selection. He noted that the spot he chose was slightly warm, as if someone had just been resting there. He brooded over the pressure that fell on him that day.

Double selections of Prospects happened maybe ten times out of the thirty-one day Selection, and almost never happened two days in a row. Even if the thirty-first pick was a double, the odds that it would be him and Sophiel were slim to none, especially because Elijah didn't quite have the confidence to be desirable and he knew it. Sophie, on the other hand, still hadn't given up hope. She was a good fighter, too. It was odd that she hadn't been picked yet.

Unbeknownst to Elijah, she peered upon him from the doorway he entered from. Contrasting Elijah's anxiety was Sophiel's worry. She couldn't help but ponder the possibility that he was afraid of being separated from her, not afraid of the journey the Guides intended for him. That wouldn't make a difference to the Guides: any kind of fear would get him omitted. She wanted to help him in some way, but felt that approaching him would just cause him to feel even more helpless, even deeper in her shadow. She regretted casting that shadow, wishing instead that Elijah would shine his own light. She always talked to him with an optimistic attitude, but subconsciously knew that they were unlikely to be selected together. Sophiel sat, peering through the doorway at her friend for some substantial period of time. Night fell, heralded by little sconces of Essence on the walls lighting up. When she saw Elijah standing up to return to his room, she too stood, hurrying back to her room to avoid a possible encounter with him.

Elijah shuffled back to the door he came from. It was cracked open already, but he didn't notice and walked through it to encounter nobody. The halls were dimly lit by the Essence. He could head right, which would take him to his room, or he could go straight, which lead into the quarters of the Absolvers. The Absolver hall was abnormally dark in comparison to the other hallway. Figuring that he only had one more day here at Towerpoint and that it wouldn't hurt to be a little adventurous, he headed straight and into the nearly black hall.

The doors were constructed from wood, a stark contrast to the rest of the tower. They had names carved into them. Some were recognizable to him, the more heroic and famous Absolvers that he would hear stories of. He glided his fingers across the names as he walked down the hall. In the faint light, he tripped.

The Prospect didn't handle the fall very well, his masked face planting into the stone floor. He slowly stood, brushing some dust off of himself. He turned around to see what he had tripped over; he was shocked to discover that it was a person. The figure on the floor stirred with their back against the wall. He performed some small motion with his hands, causing a short-lived golden light to shine within them. He was Folding. The lights in the hall brightened up.

The man on the ground looked up at the Prospect, now doused in light. "You know, I'd tell you to watch where you're going, but that was kinda my fault for sleeping in the hallway," said the black-clad man. He stood, stretching and yawning. "I can guiltlessly ask you, though, what a Prospect is doing in the Absolver hallway, especially this late."

"I-uh-er, sorry! I was just...lost, yeah."

"No, you weren't."

Elijah winced at how quickly his lie failed. He sighed. "I was exploring. I know that I won't get selected, so I was just wandering around because I won't be back for another year."

"Why do you 'know' that you won't be selected?"

"I came with a friend. If either of us are going to be picked, it'd be her."

"Why can't it be both of you?" inquired the man, who had a bloodstain on his mask that bothered Elijah.

"Today was a double pick."

"Hm. Well, I can't tell you that you're wrong," bluntly said Vegas.

"Are you an Absolver?"

"Take a wild guess."

"That's a 'yeah'. Look, you guys are generally good at judging people, right?"

"Not necessarily."

Elijah came to the conclusion that the man was in a sour mood. He sighed again. "Can you just tell me what's wrong with me?"

Vegas tilted his head at such an odd question. "Uh...you're a Prospect in the wrong hall?"

"No, not that. Things like character or integrity, all that crap that the Guides use to judge Prospects."

Vegas waited for a second, sizing up the teen in front of him. He inspected his posture, analyzed his speaking pattern. "Hmm...if I had to guess, you don't have the drive. Well, not that you don't have any drive, but the pressure is stronger than your drive."

"How do I fix that?"

"You think that you won't be selected because your friend would be picked before you. Don't. You aren't here to be picked, you're here to _get picked_ , you get it?"

"No, that doesn't make any sense."

Vegas laughed. "Probably not. I mean that the Selection isn't something that you receive. It's something you take, in a sense. You need to be more willing to take your place than every other Prospect is willing to take theirs. Openly thinking that your friend is more likely to take their place than you are puts you at the bottom. You need to be on top."

"So, like confidence?"

"Yeah. Think about it. You go into a fight fearing that you'll lose and you'll probably lose. Go in willing to win and you'll probably win. The Guides want winners. Who's your friend, anyway?"

"Her name's Sophiel. I've known her since we were kids, but she would always beat me when we sparred. She hasn't given up hope like I sort of have."

Vegas was immediately reminded of Risryn. It reminded him that today was the worst day of his life. He grimaced under his mask.

"Yeah, I've been... _exactly_ where you are." Vegas thought back to the year where he was up for audition. He remembered being afraid that Risryn would be selected and that he wouldn't. He told this to another Prospect, who only ridiculed him over it and said that he surely wouldn't be selected. Vegas became even more self-deprecating, but the Prospect insulted Risryn while ridiculing him. Vegas became angry and started a fight with the other Prospect. He was victorious, and he gained the confidence that he believe contributed to his subsequent selection. "Your friend's a stupid loser." Vegas almost laughed saying that.

"What?"

"Your friend. Sophiel or something? Total chump, won't get picked."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because it's true. She sucks, you probably do too."

"Well, you don't need to be such a jerk about it! Gods!"

"The gods won't do anything about it. The Guides won't do anything about it. You won't do anything about it."

Elijah glared at the man through the cracked eye of his mask. The man kept going. "That burning you feel? Is it...shame? Are you ashamed of being such a wimp, living in the shadow of a failure?"

Elijah growled and snapped. He winded up a punch, a wide hook. Vegas expected it ever since he began egging him on, and he could have easily dodged or parried the telegraphed attack, but didn't. He actually decided to stick his chin out a bit to receive the hit. Elijah connected cleanly with Vegas' mask, knocking him to the ground at least a meter away. Vegas spoke. "Ow, damn. That hurt. I have good news for you, guy." Elijah gave a short, questioning "Huh?" in response.

"I could feel the anger behind that punch, and it was pretty strong, too. You could be a good fighter, if you just get your emotions under wraps. That anger you felt when I insulted your friend? You need to be able to get angry like that whenever you want. On the other hand, though, that punch was too wide and obvious: it means that the anger prevented you from thinking."

"Wait, so you didn't mean any of that mean stuff you were saying?"

"No, course not, I couldn't care a whole lot less about your friend. You can't just let yourself get pissy when something specific is said, you need to be able to call on your power at any moment. But you also need to control that rage in such a way that you remain practical."

"I...see."

"Too little rage and you'll be weak. Too little control and you'll be ineffective. Keep your passion under your command, though, you'll be dominant. Get it?"

"Yeah."

"That's what the Guides look for in a fighter. In a person, they look for loyalty, which you've already shown by defending your friend's honor, and they look for an indomitable will. No fear. You have everything you need except that last part."

"How do I get that?"

"Come with me." Vegas walked past the Prospect. He moved down a few short hallways, before coming out onto the Selection balcony.

It was a wide, open space, made to accomodate a great number of Prospects. The floor, like nearly everything else in Towerpoint, was cold, hard stone. Vegas stopped in the middle of the spacious floor. He turned towards Elijah. "Fight me."

"What? You're an Absolver, I don't stand a chance!"

"No, you don't. But get over here and fight me anyway."

Elijah tentatively stepped forward and weakly brought up a fighting stance. "That won't do, kid!" chastised Vegas. "You know what? Just get out of your stance." Elijah complied. Vegas spoke again. "Now, enter your stance," he commanded sternly. Elijah casually put up his hands in response. Vegas facepalmed. "Not like that. We haven't even started and I can already tell that I'll blow right through you. You can't just have confidence in a conversation, you need to show it in a fight. Once more!"

This time, Elijah fiercely came into his stance. It was a wide, bladed stance with open hands, the Kahlt Method. "That's better. You need to be imposing, especially as a Kahlt. You're supposed to be the tough guy out of all four styles. Now…" Vegas tightly brought up his arms, adopting a traditional stance with closed fists: Forsaken. "En garde."

Elijah decided to be brave and opened up the fight with a jumping front kick aimed for the chest. Vegas quickly swayed back, avoiding the kick before coming back up with a high roundhouse to punish. He caught his mark, right on the side of the head, causing Elijah to collapse to one knee. "On your feet, Prospect!" Vegas shouted, with the demeanor of a drill sergeant. It was quite loud, ringing through the stone halls of Towerpoint.

Elijah rose abruptly, throwing an uppercut by surprise on the way up. Vegas leaned to the side to avoid it in the nick of time and threw a hook in response. The counterattack was fast, but didn't connect. Instead, Vegas felt a broad pain in his side as Elijah ducked and stepped in for a body blow. Elijah went on to throw a second punch to the body, a hook of his own, but the more experienced fighter struck at the wrist with a trained parry. Elijah was briefly stunned, long enough for Vegas to wind up a heavy front kick and knock him on his rear. "Not fast enough!" he growled.

A crowd began to form, with a few Guides appearing on the upper balcony and several Prospects showing themselves in the mouth of the hallway. A few Absolvers came from a separate opening, some of them moving to stop the fight. They were stopped with a simple motion of Cyrus' hand. He had appeared seemingly from thin air, and knowing Vegas, he figured that the Absolver had something planned. The fight went on.

Elijah hesitated for a moment before he stood, but Vegas didn't give him any respite. He moved in with a flurry of linear punches and round kicks, with only a few being successfully blocked by the Prospect. Elijah snuck in a quick jab between the blows every now and then, but he knew it wouldn't be enough to stop the onslaught. "You can't hide in that shell forever, Elijah!"

Elijah decided to go for broke. He summoned all of his might and willpower, forming a glass-like, blue carapace around him: the signature ability of a Kahlt practitioner. He absorbed a heavy kick from his opponent, but didn't flinch and didn't feel the pain quite yet. He threw out a quick punch to disrupt any follow ups before throwing a huge punch of his own. Alas, it was parried by the man in black, who moved to counter with an axe kick. Elijah armored up again, but an orange energy enveloped Vegas' leg as he brought it down. The impact was huge, shattering Elijah's Absorption effect and knocking him to the ground.

"Do you give up, Prospect?"

Elijah looked up at the superior fighter. Every fiber of his being was screaming for him to stop, to just curl up into a ball and hope that he survived. He dug deep, searching for the power to continue, but he couldn't find it. He had the air knocked out of him and every shot the Absolver took left a lasting pain on his body. He opened his mouth to speak, to surrender, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sophiel in the crowd.

 _She wouldn't want me to give up._

Elijah punched the ground with sufficient force to leave a small crack in the stone. With a hellish battlecry, he pushed himself as hard as he could to stand up and put his fists up one more time. He pushed off his rear leg, beginning to close the distance and throw out some final resort with reckless abandon, anything to prove that his fire still burned. Anything to prove that it would never suffocate, never die out on its own. That it would refuse to give up.

Vegas caught Elijah's fist. He loosened up, dropping his other arm to his back and releasing Elijah's clenched hand. He put the parrying hand behind his back, meeting with his other hand and turning away from the Kahlt practitioner. "That'll do, Prospect." Vegas took two slow steps away from Elijah, who tiredly fell onto his knee. "When you were on the ground there, I could practically see the wheels turning in your head. Your body said to stop. But your soul? Your soul wasn't done yet. _That's_ indomitable will, Elijah. The most valuable trait of an Absolver." He turned to face the Prospect, who in turn slowly forced himself off of his knee and onto both feet.

Vegas looked at the teenager face to face. He took his hands from behind his back, putting them together in front of himself. Elijah took a second to catch on, and mimicked the gesture. They both bent forward slightly and dipped their heads: the formal martial salute.

One clap gave birth to an uproarious applause from the crowd of Prospects, Absolvers, and even Guides.

"Go get some rest, Prospect. If you get selected in the morning, you're gonna need it."


	4. Back on the Road

Vegas was unable to return to sleep that night. He did make it back to his room instead of just sleeping on the hallway floor, but as he tried to rest, he was at best able to find short bursts of sleep that only lasted for a few minutes. Every one of those periods of unconsciousness was quickly plagued by a nightmare, generally consisting of Risryn berating him for what he had done, or the Guides praising him and rewarding him for his betrayal. Nevertheless, he did attempt to force himself to sleep clear until the morning came, in some futile effort to keep himself rested. He felt that a journey lie ahead, as he knew that staying within Towerpoint would invariably drive him mad. He needed to get back out into the world and continue his work. Vegas believed that such a trip might help him clear his mind.

A little clock powered by Essence played a soft jingle to indicate to him that it was morning. The windowless room provided no other options for getting any notion of what time it was. Vegas performed a miniscule Fold to cause the clock to cease, before deciding that he wanted to go watch the Selection. He counted, "One...two...three." With the third count, he swept his legs off of his bed to force himself upwards. He stared down at himself, still clothed from yesterday. He cursed himself for not even caring enough to change into something more appropriate to sleep. After a few seconds of hyping himself up, Vegas pushed himself off of his bed. He stretched, yawned, and decided that waking up after such a shoddy night's rest was probably more difficult for him than some of the fights he'd been in.

The man opened his door and lurched out into the hallway with all the elegance of a Stagger-style master. Several Absolvers populated the hallway, also wishing to watch the ceremony. A few gave odd looks to Vegas, incited by his disturbance the night before, although it wasn't like any of their expressions were visible through their masks anyway. Vegas joined the small torrent of martial artists, noting that the Missionary Tiwaz wasn't among them. They collectively came out of the halls, some going to the upper balcony and some going to the lower one. Vegas found himself with the latter.

A pair of Guides stood at the mouth of the frigid balcony, while a number of Prospects waited for their signal over in a corridor. The Guides exchanged some words quietly amongst themselves, and after some period of deliberation, one turned towards the mob of Prospects. He raised a hand and said in a loud, firm voice, "Prospects, you may enter formation for Selection." A blur of individuals clad in simple white clothing exited the hall, and took their places as a series of columns and rows. Among them was the newly-confident Elijah and the long-haired blonde Sophiel, standing next to each other in the final row. One of the two Guides repeated the same explanation that every Prospect in the room had heard for the past thirty days. He concluded with the phrase that so many of the Prospects had memorized at this point.

"Begin meditation and await your Selection."

The aspirers followed suit, forming a uniform series of men and women looking down at their clasped hands in a wide stance. Several moments later, the Guide who had not spoken began to slowly walk off to the side. He moved down the rows, peering into them with an eerie seriousness on his unmasked face. His steps were silent, and most of the Prospects didn't even notice that they were being passed yet. He made his way all the way to the final row before stepping into the formation. He made his way down the ten-person rank, passing five, six, seven, eight people before stopping at the ninth. Some sense within him had urged him to stop: the telltale sign that whoever he stood before had that spark that could possibly grow into the flame of an Absolver.

He looked up slowly, his eyes meeting with the feet, then the pants, then the tank top of a pale-skinned female Prospect. He tapped her shoulder and she snapped to attention. The Guide pointed off to a dark room to the side, and the Prospect stepped out of formation and briskly walked into it. But something felt off to the Guide. He stood still for a few moments, before taking one final step to the side, encountering the tenth person of the row. It was a young man with peachy skin and dirty-blond hair that came loosely down to about the jawbone. The Guide again felt that spark. He dismissed any concerns about making a double selection, knowing that this one was right. He tapped the man on the shoulder and directed him to that same room.

The old man in black robes returned to the front of the formation in complete silence. He rendezvoused with the other Guide, who nodded at him to indicate readiness. The Guide who picked the Prospects spoke, reciting a phrase with the same structure that the Prospects had heard all month.

"Selection is now complete. The Prospects Sophiel and Elijah have been chosen to walk the path to becoming Absolvers." This time, he added, "This is the final selection of the year. You may return to your homes. If you wish to try again, you may come next year at the same time to audition once more."

The remaining Prospects were visibly crestfallen, but didn't make a sound. At their dismissal, they started towards a large pair of double doors that would bring them to an Essence-powered elevator, which would then bring them down to the exit of Towerpoint. Only when the collection of abandoned learners made it outside did they begin to tear off their hand-carved masks in anger, or sit themselves down to cry. All of the young dreamers knew that they would have to go home and tell their friends and families that they didn't make the cut.

Meanwhile, at the top of Towerpoint, Vegas made his way past his fellow Absolvers and entered the dark room where the two Prospects had been directed. A few Absolvers also came to watch, but most were disinterested and went their separate ways. Elijah, who was already exhilarated, shot up when Vegas approached. Sophiel only gave a slight tilt of her head at the man she had previously witnessed fighting her friend. She preemptively noted that his posture and apparel were indicative of a less-than-ebullient attitude. Sophiel asked in an almost noble tone of voice, "So you're the one who helped Elijah last night?"

"Uh...yeah. If you call beating him up in front of all the other Prospects 'help,' then sure," Vegas teased, with a deadpan tone of voice.

Sophiel gave a curt bow in response. "Thank you, nonetheless." She nudged Elijah with her elbow, prompting him.

"Yeah, thanks," said Elijah. "I don't think I'd've made the cut without your guidance."

"Think nothing of it. My bit of advice, not every person you trip over in a dark room is gonna be as gracious as I was. Where you're going, tripping over someone is probably gonna get you killed."

"Duly noted, Mister...I don't think I ever got your name," Elijah responded.

"I am Vegas. Absolver extraordinaire, pride of the Guides, slayer of friends. You'd do well to forget it."

Elijah and Sophiel didn't know what to make of that statement, although they wouldn't have time to. The Guide who selected them before spoke up. "Stand at attention, Prospects. The Essence Ghost is ready to greet you." The two responded by turning around to face a small, circular dais on the floor, now lit in a golden hue by swirling Essence. After a few seconds, a translucent and luminescent figure of a man with no distinct features stood on the dais. He silently extended his hand in front of himself. The Guide turned to Sophiel. "Hand him your mask."

Sophiel gave a quick nod in response and reached up to remove her handmade mask, which was painted on one side with roses and the other side with thorns. Beneath her mask was a freckled face with fair features and verdant green eyes. She handed it to the strange apparition, who proceeded to lace the interior with Essence before returning it to her hands. Elijah followed suit, removing his mask and handing it to the ghostly figure. His mask bore a space-and-stars motif, and his face was one with strong features. He had what might've been a birthmark or maybe a burn scar covering the entirety of the left side of his face. The Essence Ghost returned his mask, as well. "You may don your masks," prompted the Guide. Sophiel quickly complied. Elijah gave a quick wave to Vegas before following suit. They both disappeared into thin air, transported to a land where they could begin their true journey.

"Always bittersweet to see them go," said the Guide. The Essence Ghost evaporated behind him.

"Eh, I get the feeling we'll see them again soon," responded the Absolver.

The Guide nodded with a small smile. "So, Vegas, what brings you here?"

"Aside from wanting to see those two off, I need to ask you something."

"What is it?"

"I need to leave Towerpoint."

"Well, of course you can, just-"

"I mean, I need to get _far_ from Towerpoint."

"Hm." The Guide fell into thought for a brief moment. "We can send you on a Missionary expedition."

"Yeah, sure, whatever. Don't even bother with the cloak, just get me on the road."

The Guide was perplexed, but remembered what Vegas had been ordered to do the day before. He concluded correctly that the man just needed some time away from his bosses and colleagues. "Well, I can send you out to Uring, the Tear, the Orate…"

"Let's go with the Tear."

The Guide accepted his request. He raised his hand and used his Essence bracelet to open up a portal into the Tearan wilderness. "I'll be sure to let the other Guides know where you are, but you're not likely to be disturbed. If anything, we're overstaffed right now," he chuckled.

"Thank you. I'll be back...I don't know. Eventually." Vegas stepped into the portal immediately after finishing his sentence, not wanting to exchange any more words with anyone. He was instantly transported hundreds of kilometers away into a clearing within a forest. The portal snapped shut behind him.

The Tear is a mountainous region with several small, warring tribes instead of one overarching society. Life in the Tear is largely based on a hunter-gatherer kind of lifestyle. Between the dangerous geography, hostile locals, and wild beasts, the country can be a very dangerous place. Technically, it was Vegas' job to spread the law of the god Anlek while he was in the Tear, but he didn't much care to do it. It wasn't like the natives would listen anyway. From what he had seen of Tearans, which included a few Absolvers and Prospects with chips on their shoulders and a peculiar pair of siblings stationed in an oversized birdhouse, they weren't known to be the most amiable people.

The man looked around several times, acquainting himself with his new surroundings. The clearing was on an incline, leaving him uncomfortably off-axis, and was surrounded by the dead trees of winter. The ground was smothered in a crystalline, untouched snow that came halfway up the shin, and from the sky fell slow little snowflakes that danced about in the air with an elegance that was uncharacteristic of the Tear's own culture. The snow was far too slow to have built up the amount that was on the ground, indicating to the Absolver that the snowfall may have been coming to a close. If it wasn't painfully cold and sloped enough to nearly roll the man's ankles, he would have found it beautiful. _Well, damn,_ he thought to himself, _He could've dropped me off somewhere decent._

Dangerously hot or cold environments are hardly a threat to even the most inexperienced of Prospects, however. Meditative techniques had been refined for centuries before the downfall, and mankind had already mastered the state of self. In this state, a dull gray fog enwreathed the dreamer as they meditated, and outside influences wouldn't even be able to touch them. A person must've been at peace for this technique to work, but it proved an invaluable tool to Missionaries and Royal Guards alike. The ability functioned much like an expanded homeostasis. Vegas found himself breathing in deeply and then exhaling slowly as the gray mist of the dreamer surrounded him like a fire situated about a totem.

The peace of meditation is something often overlooked by the layman. Few things bring the ease of mind that the act can bring. With controlled breathing and a silent environment, Vegas delved deep into his own thoughts for the first time since he committed the deed that wreaked such chaos within his soul. And for the first time since he was a novice to the technique, he found himself unable to concentrate. It was as if there was a heavy bog bearing down on his mental state, which he quickly attributed to the death of Risryn. Vegas often used imagery of clearing storm clouds, and water settling after a drop causes a ripple to reverberate throughout the medium. However, he found that the storm clouds refused to be chased off, and that the water, no matter how much time had passed, refused to settle and return to the state of mirror-like reflection. The clouds bred thunder and lightning, and the water turned a deep red color not unlike blood.

The Absolver grew angry. Even in such a sublime, desolate place and in near-absolute silence, he could not clear his mind of the actions he had performed. He yelled at the top of his lungs into the dark morning sky of the sierra, dispelling the mystic fog that was supposed to protect him. He collapsed to his knees in the snow, slamming the ground with his fists, and thrashing about as if he was a toddler having a temper tantrum. The thought of his own reaction to the situation only served to anger him more, fueling the hatred he felt, not just at himself, but at everything.

After the short bout of rage, Vegas let out a few more exasperated grunts that could have easily been mistaken for weeps, before beginning to rise to his feet one leg at a time. He looked up to see that the snow had stopped completely, even though the clouds still loomed overhead. The cessation of precipitation was the reason he was able to notice something that might have been covered up, had the snow continued to drip from the great gray paint pools in the sky.

Footprints. Maybe twenty meters away. Certainly human. There was no way in hell they didn't see that whole episode. Vegas was frozen for a moment as he scanned the environment once more. The rest of the area remained untouched and as it was before, and nobody was around. It was just the path of small boot prints through the snow, everything else remained pristine.

"Hello?" shouted Vegas. His voice echoed around the mountain range, the sound waves coming back to meet him a few times. They were the only sounds that returned his call. He sighed heavily, still a bit angry and now embarrassed, before moving closer to the prints to follow them. The glimmering snow blanket beneath him was made to crunch with every step, disrupting the ambiance of barren branches brushing against each other quietly. He continued on through the dark forest, as it escaped the crack of dawn and moved forward towards noon, with the sun hiding behind the sky quite a bit more timidly than it had the day before when it witnessed his betrayal. The prints were deep and unconnected, indicating that whoever left them was carefully moving and in no hurry.

After an extended period of time trudging through the snowdrift of the Tear, Vegas found himself gazing upon a great grotto in the side of the mountain. Within was a firepit, situated ahead of a figure in heavy winter clothing. It was impossible to tell whether it was just a normal sized person in a ton of layers, or a large person wearing only a few. Vegas slowly approached from behind, careful not to make a sound. He did not wish to alert the figure, who was looking down at something they may have been holding in their hands. He made it within ten meters before the figure perked up and snapped around to look at the intruder. It was at this point that the Absolver recognized the object within their hands was a broken sword. More specifically, it was an Oratian Chokuto, which typically only found itself in the hands of noble family members from the Orate. This one in particular looked to be incredibly intricate, bearing several carvings along the blade and a gem for a pommel.

The figure themself was still indistinct, as they wore gloves and a pitch black mask with very thin, angled slits for eyes. They were clad entirely in black. However, a few details could be determined from the limited amount of information available to the intruder. Namely, their mask was at a level a bit lower than Vegas' own, indicating that they were simply wearing several hats and hoods, and as they pointed their broken sword at Vegas, their sleeve rolled up a bit to reveal an arm made not of flesh, but of metal and Essence: a prosthetic.

A very feminine voice with a definite Oratian accent commanded the Absolver to halt. However, she sounded more desperate than assertive; more fearful than imposing.

Vegas was unable to decide for a moment whether he should Unfold his own sword or if he should take the situation diplomatically. However, as he saw the broken blade tremble with an uncertainty that wasn't dissimilar to its master's voice, he realized that whoever this was wouldn't pose any substantial threat to him.

"Very well," responded Vegas. "Neither of us are from these parts, so we're like kindred spirits. Let's just have a seat at this nice fire of yours and exchange words like the weary travelers we are."

The woman let down her blade tentatively. She paused for a moment before seeing the intruder casually take a seat on a rock near the flames. She observed him for a moment before sitting by the fire herself, feeling her heartbeat slow down as the threat seemed to be averted.

They remained there in an awkward silence for quite some time.


End file.
